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Terse Tales 


BY 

CLARENCE H. MURPHY 

♦j 


Point Pleasant Printing and Publishing Co. 
Point Pleasant, N. J. 

MCMXVll 


COPYRIGHT, 1917 
BY 

CLARENCE H. MURPHY 
Point Pleasant 
New Jersey 


y 

JUN 21 1317 


PRINTED MAY, 1917 


©GI.A470046 


DEDICATED TO MY FRIEND 
JOSEPH F. MORAN 



CONTENTS 


THE GOTHAMITE 

THE LEGEND OF THE STRAW MAN 
JIM CROW 

RODMAN, BUCCANEER 
THE ORIENTAL CHARM 
THE HEART BREAKERS 
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 



THE GOTHAMITE 


Wearily the tired broker leaned upon his desk in a busy 
office in lower Broadway. The noise of the ticker and click 
of the typewriter keys seemed more than he could endure. 

Many years had he worked and many sleepless nights had 
he passed in attaining the position he held in the financial 
district. 

He had never approved of vacations for men whose liveli- 
hood depended upon the fickle quotations of the stock market. 
But this warm day in mid-summer he felt if he could only 
go away to some quiet country village and mingle with the 
simple rural folks, he would know once again the happiness of 
his youth when his greatest worry had been whether he had 
dug enough worms in the garden to catch all the pike in the 
brook which skirted the little Jersey town of his birth. 

He strolled to the window overlooking the street. The 
people looked like midgets from the altitude of the fifteenth 
floor of the skyscraper he tenanted. As he gazed upon the 
restless crowd he thought of how many of them were struggling 
for the barest necessities of life — yes, just as they were then 
struggling to reach their various destinations. 

If only he could feel as the country visitor on his annual trip 
to the city; nervous for fear he should lose the card bearing 
the written address of a relative living in the Bronx, or his 
pocket book, with the noisy clasp, deep down in his trousers’ 
pocket; dodging the traffic or with laudable patience awaiting 
many minutes for an opportunity to cross the street at a 
country pace. 

The desire to forget the city, its noise, its confusion, its 


8 


THE GOTHAMITE 


twenty-four hour exacting rule of “the survival of the fittest” 
became dominant. 

Calling his manager to him he advised him that his address 
for the next month would be Homertown, N. J. Closing his 
desk, he gave that surprised assistant such instructions as he 
deemed necessary and impressed upon him that the most im- 
portant of all was that he was not to be communicated with by 
mail or otherwise. He had determined to live a normal life 
for one month anyway. 

Within an hour he had packed his trunk at the club and 
was on his way to the Penn up-town station. 

Once comfortably seated in the chair car he became remi- 
niscent. What was the money game worth anyway? What 
did it matter if he made another fifty thousand next year or 
not? He had all a man in reason could want. He was no 
more content now than when he had saved his first thousand. 
City life is artificial. Its people are artificial. The bloom on 
the cheek of the society girl occupying the chair opposite to 
him was artificial. What a relief to be able to go among coun- 
try folk again. Nature all around. The people natural. 
No unhealthy tint upon the cheeks of the country lass. All 
these years he had been mislead into leading a life which had 
deprived him of the real joy of living. Maybe he had better 
buy a farm near his native village and live the life of a country 
gentleman — no ticker, no typewriters, no worry — just life. 

As he neared his long dreamed of hamlet, things began to 
assume a familiar look and as the train passed over the trestle 
spanning the pike brook, he could not get to the platform of 
the car with enough speed and dignity without stumbling over 
the slender little foot of the tinted stranger who occupied the 
chair opposite to the one he had just vacated. Lifting his hat 
he apologized, flushed a little at her forgiving smile, and lost 
no time in reaching the few planks of the little station platform. 


THE GOTHAMITE 


9 


There he paused, wondering if the country hotel where he 
used to envy the traveling salesmen their natty appearance, 
still opened its hospitable doors to strangers. 

A man of rather careless presence and speech approached 
him and inquired if he had any baggage he wished “hauled.** 

He fumbled for the check of his steamer trunk, found it and 
upon being assured that the hotel was still **hopeful,** directed 
his trunk taken there. 

He carelessly lifted his dress-suit case and light-heartedly 
started down the village street for the hotel the “hauler** had 
so described. 

It seemed unchanged to him as he went to the little desk and 
was assigned to “No. 5*’ by a barkeeper with a reddish face 
and inquisitive eye. 

Linen changed, supper finished, he took his choice of one of 
the two porch chairs, lit a Romeo and dreamed again. 

Life at last! No sound but the crickets and the far off wail 
of the whip-poor-will. 

In the morning he would drive out into the country and see 
the farms, select one with a comfortable farm house and big 
barns, pay the farmer well for it, and so be known to the coun- 
try folks as a country lad who had gone to the big city, “made 
good’* and returned not only honest but generous. He would 
help the needy, become a Justice and see that none paid more 
harvest money for plows than the plow agent told them they 
would cost. 

What a pleasure to be once again among the simple country 
folk! No jealousy, no hated, no struggle for the elusive 
(Jollar — just love, peace and good will towards all. And who 
knows? Some day perhaps a healthy country lass with rosy 
cheeks unkissed . 

Just then he noticed the other porch chair had an occupant. 
The intruder stretched out his long legs, carelessly crossed 


10 


THE GOTHAMITE 


his right “extension” over his left knee, see-sawed the former 
for several minutes and finally broke the silence. 

“Be you a stranger?*’ 

“Well, yes. I might be called one.” 

“Sellin* neckties?” 

“No.” 

“Shoes?” 

“No.” 

“Well, what be you doing?” 

“Nothing!” 

“Hem! That’s what I heard a fellow say one time but the 
Squire give him thirty days just the same. I seen you when 
you was at the station. Told Jake (him’s the bar -keep) I seen 
you and he told me you had no sample cases — just a little 
trunk. Be you ’spec to stay long?” 

“I do not know. Fine night, my friend.” 

“Yas. But that ain’t got nothing to do with me as constable. 
Jim Hicks’ grocery was broke into last month. Now tell me 
who you be and what your errant hereabouts. No strangers 
git by me in this here town as long as that ten spot reward Jim 
Hicks offered stands good.” 

“My name is James Faulks and I am from New York.” 

“Faulks! Faulks! Henry Faulks lived here till he ate a 
toadstool!” 

“He was my father.” 

“Well! Well, Jimmie, glad ter meet yer. I remember 
you when you was a little bit of a feller. Come on in and we’ll 
toss a nickle to see who pays for the drinks.” 

Somewhat disappointed at the interruption of his reverie 
but wishing to be obliging, the tired broker accompanied the 
constable to the bar-room. Here “Jimmie” was introduced to 


THE GOTHAMITE 


11 


a dozen or more thirsty souls, had many “good lucks” wished 
him, paid for them, retired to his room — and forgetfulness. 

Bright and early the next morning he arose, hired a car and 
viewed the country. 

One farm only appealed to him. It might have been because 
it was the most distant from the hostelry. Yes, the farmer 
wanted to sell. Was tired of country life and while his visits 
to the city had been few, he was willing to sacrifice “a sure 
thing” for such an uncertainty as living in the city as he had 
always been more or less of a sport anyway — had played 
“crack-a-lew” for forty years and felt qualified. 

It was arranged that the broker pay fifty dollars for an 
option, good for three days. The fifty dollars changed hands, 
the farmer started to wish the broker “Good luck,” but did 
not finish before the car was started “on high.” 

That evening, surrounded on the hotel porch by several of 
the rustics, the man from Gotham received his first awakening. 
Did he know Sarah Thomas, the pretty little fifteen year old 
daughter of Homer Thomas, had just returned home from New 
Brunswick? Her folks say she was visiting her Aunt but no 
one else believes it. Hicks should have been robbed. He had 
been robbing everyone else ever since he ran a grocery. If the 
broker would pay ten dollars a day for a man and ten dollars 
for a team, the speaker knew of a man who would work for 
him by the day. The garage man should not have charged 
thirty dollars for the car that morning — only twenty dollars. 
If the broker would sue before the Squire, the constable would 
serve the papers on a fifty-fifty basis. 

Comforting himself with the thought that the rural folks had 
only been seeking amusement with him in their gossip and that 
the garage man would discover his mistake and return the 
change, the broker retired for a second night’s sleep in the 
village of his cradle. 

The next day was Sunday, and after attending the Church 


12 


THE GOTHAMITE 


of his belief, he strolled leisurely through the village streets. 
Large maples shaded them. Wild flowers grew in abundance 
in the vacant places between the little houses. It was a pretty 
village. 

Selecting a shady place to rest near a house more pretentious 
than its neighbors, he reclined on the grass and with the 
fragrance wafted from his favorite brand, felt at peace. 

Suddenly a shrill feminine voice penetrated the silence. He 
started, but relaxed again when it queried. “Land’s sakes! 
Sarah, what did you do with the new hair-ribbon Uncle Ben 
sent you last Christmas?” 

A dark eyed little girl, reclining in a hammock on the porch, 
replied in a quiet, musical voice, “Grandma dear, Violet is 
wearing it.” 

The broker had never before been much impressed by hair- 
ribbons but he felt an unaccountable interest in the subject this 
time. 

Rising and remembering “thirst” seemed a pass-word in the 
village, he approached the young girl with the intention of 
asking the courtesy of a glass of sparkling water. 

His intense desire the next minute was to be on the same 
level as the fifteenth floor of a certain building on Broadway. 

A dog approached from the direction of the house with 
as much speed as its ungainly size would permit, but before 
their meeting that same musical voice called, “Violet!” 

The dog stopped — the broker’s pulse became normal. 

Such a winsome little girl with her dark tresses and happy 
smile. 

She asked could she do anything for him and so regretted 
Violet’s rudeness — but Violet was a good “doggie” and meant 
no harm. When she spoke to the broker he no longer had any 
doubt she far outclassed her city sisters. Such simplicity! 

But the longer he conversed with the little lass of such 
promise, the more her disregard for the rules of grammar 


THE GOTHAMITE 


13 


grated upon him. Her ambition in life seemed bounded by 
the kitchen, the dog, a doily and the movies. Disillusioned, 
the broker sought once again the solace of the hotel porch. 

Here he was soon joined by a few of the village idlers. He 
gleaned from their conversation that there were many fraternal 
societies represented in the hamlet, but could not reconcile 
their criticisms with the various insignias in the lapels of their 
coats. Charity seemed negative. 

There seemed to be no inhabitant in the vicinity who was 
even in the fourth rate of popularity. The few who were in 
more comfortable circumstances than the rest could never have 
been so if they had been honest. The man who went to the 
Church of one denomination was no good in the opinion of the 
man who belonged to another. Old Knowles was clever — he 
could get the best end of it every time in a horse deal. The 
garage man was the brightest sort of a chap. 

The broker felt the old sensation of weariness creeping upon 
him right there in the quiet of the sunny country side. Nature 
was unmarred, all he had expected to find it, but the country 
folks were just as human as those in the city, only more 
crudely so. 

He arose, entered the “hopeful’* hostelry, sought his room 
and his time table. 

That afternoon he boarded the three o’clock train enroute 
for the big city, feeling grateful that his awakening had been 
at such little cost. 

A few chairs distant from him in the “Cecile” Pullman 
coach, he noticed the same girl with the tinted face. He gazed 
long upon her. She looked so different to him now. Refine- 
ment personified. 

Upon again reaching his club and receiving the friendly 
greetings of his friends, he felt that same relief he had ex- 
perienced many times before in awakening from a dream 
occasioned by an unskillful rare-bit. 


THE LEGEND OF THE STRAW MAN 

(In Three Chapters) 

I. 

Once upon a time there lived in a little shore town in Jersey, 
a man who dealt in hay and straw. He was tolerant to all his 
fellows excepting those who chanced to be born in the Emerald 
Isle or whose Celtic names indicated some ancestor so un- 
fortunate. Neither did he approve of the manner of worship 
of some of them. 

Long he held his peace. 

But one day the Strawman could contain himself no longer. 
The spirit of the gladiator took possession of him. He 
dusted the flour from off his coat and with his trusty “Chet” 
made a journey to a neighboring village to listen to a voice of 
“melodious thunder” raised in protest against the impertinent 
existence of the Irish. 

His interest in combating this wrong waxed stronger day by 
day until finally a hall was hired in his own home town so that 
all his “faithful” followers could have their ear drums tickled 
by that self same thunderous voice. 

Thereupon at that same meeting he and his satelites took 
solemn pledges — so solemn, in fact, that to this day their 
secrecy has been maintained lest some one not so immaculate 
as the Strawman and his followers might know them. 

II. 

At that meeting held by the righteous to abate the nuisance 
of anything Irish, our hero, the Strawman, acted as doorkeeper. 


THE LEGEND OF THE STRAWMAN 


15 


Ruthlessly he turned aside without even a tear (his anger 
was so just and great) any and all those afflicted with a like 
craving to hear “him with the voice of melodious thunder,” but 
who worshipped God in a manner displeasing to the Strawman. 

Thus has been lost to posterity much which would have 
lightened the burdens of mankind, as after all, in humor only 
do we find relaxation, and even heavy men of straw have been 
known to deign a smile at the eccentricities of the Irishman, 
and restrain the poised boot long enough to suffice his exit. 

But be that as it may, gentle reader, let nothing in this 
chronicle be misunderstood to belittle this great man of straw. 
He has his purpose in life — just so has the mosquito, but 
as yet no scientist has divined either. 

But to return to the ponderous meeting. All told, about 
sixty souls attended, (not counting the half-souls) and at its 
conclusion filed out into the dark of the night, each to his 
home to be on time to count the receipts of his worthy wife 
derived that day from the wash-tub. 

Among the bright faces next morning appears our hero. 
Refreshed from a night’s calm after the “thunder,” seated upon 
a sack of meal, he received his worthy followers as befitted a 
leader. He explained to those who had weathered the storm, 
the purpose of the outburst. Lately a former customer, not of 
Irish extraction, but of a faith repugnant to the Strawman, had 
paid his straw bill and refused to deal further with our hero 
because of his decree of displeasure against his form of wor- 
ship. 

VESUVIUS I VESUVIUS I 

III. 

Some of the followers of the Strawman, being brighter than 
others of the “faithful,” upon hearing the weighty reason for 
the anger of our hero, concluded he might not be as unselfish 
and enlightened as they had first believed. So when the 


16 


THE LEGEND OF THE STRAW MAN 


Strawman and his henchman further suggested the levy of 
tribute in the guise of dues to the “Order of A P E S,“ they 
demurred, partly because while they hated Celtic things, they 
loved their purses more, and straightaway lost interest in the 
worthy crusade of making the Irish as scarce as the rarest 
museum specimen. 

But our hero, imbued with the dauntless spirit of the miller, 
simply smiled his inimical smile, and renewed his resolution to 
sit tight on his prejudice and meal sack. Thus we find him to 
this day like unto Don Quixote with his trusty Chet as Squire. 

Long may the Strawman reign upon his bags of fertilizer and 
receive the well earned plaudits and homage of his “faithful.” 
History will preserve his deeds of valor, but this biography 
is humbly undertaken so in life he may take his accredited 
place among the contemporary rulers of our age. 


JIM CROW 


Jimmie! Jimmie! James Westervelt Bainbridge, if you 
don’t come when your Mammy calls you, it’s the wood pile for 
you the rest of the afternoon.” 

Thus spoke an elderly colored woman, with hands crossed 
under a spotless gingham apron, as she stood in the doorway 
of a little cabin on the banks of the wandering Mississippi. 

‘‘Did you hear me, Jimmie? I never saw a coal black child 
yet who knew how to behave.” 

No voice answered her. Becoming anxious, she left the 
cabin, crossed a field which separated her humble shelter from 
the well kept grounds surrounding the colonial mansion of 
Willoughby Fairfield, and paused as she neared the hedge. 

When young, she had been a slave in the household of Mr. 
Fairfield’s father, and her little home was a silent tribute to 
his generosity. Freedom to her had meant care, slavery, inde- 
pendence, for a more kindly master than Mr. Fairfield had 
never lived. All her simple wants had been anticipated, and 
every consideration shown to her. Since the armies of the 
North had freed her race, she had known many hardships — 
poverty was not the least. 

As she neared the hedge, she recognized the familiar bat- 
tered brown soft hat of her Jimmie. 

‘‘Poor little chap,” she thought, “how much better it would 
be for you if you could only be a slave in that same good old 
Southern family. You are such a strange child — dreaming, 
always dreaming. Just as though life were not all chores. 
Fifteen years old, no thought of what is to become of you, 
happy just as long as you can hang around this hedge, or read 


18 


JIM CROW 


books when you can’t. Why do you haunt that hedge any- 
way? You have never told me when I asked you — just put 
your arms around me, silly like, and kissed your scolding 
Mammy. When I punish you and make you chop needless 
piles of wood, you just whistle so heartily like 1 sometimes 
think 1 made a mistake in the punishment — but 1 never knew 
you to visit that wood pile any other time.” 

She quietly approached the grounds and peering over the 
hedge, saw Jimmie standing close to the other side of it — a tree 
shielding him from the observation of anyone in the house or 
grounds. He was intently gazing at something on the lawn 
near the house. She could see nothing to account for his 
interest unless it might be pretty, blue eyed, fair haired young 
Cecile Fairfield, who at that moment was ascending the steps 
of the porch. 

She waited. As the daughter of the wealthy planter entered 
the house, Jimmie parted the hedge and faced his under- 
standing Mammy. His surprise was great, but he said nothing 
— just walked beside her to the little home of his birth. 

That night, their frugal supper finished, he told her all, 
unaware of the pain it caused her — for her Jimmie’s sake. 
When the little planter’s daughter was ten and he was 
twelve, he had come across her while on his way home from 
fishing, standing near a tree with a little stick in her small 
hand, pale and frightened, the big and vicious dog of young 
Mr. Bixby snarling at her. He had clubbed that dog away, and 
then run home in fear of Mr. Bixby. Ever since that day he 
had loved the little white girl, not as people love in novels — 
just longed to always serve her and protect her from harm. 
He had always been careful she should not see him as he 
watched her, for she would become frightened — yes, just as 
she had been at that bad dog — and he would never see her 
any more. He knew she had no need for his care, but she 
was ever on his mind. 

With a gentleness no culture could engender, Jimmie’s 


JIM CROW 


19 


Mammy reasoned with him. She realized his color was no 
more hereditary than was the fidelity of his servitude. He was 
the best boy ever lived, but fate had decreed he must live his 
life among his own race and adapt himself to their customs. 
The accident of birth made all else impossible. If he would be 
happy, he must live as they lived, think as they thought and 
never seek to invade the world of the white people. Nature 
had intended them to be different. In the world beyond all 
things would be equal, but Providence was too wise for the 
understanding of human minds, and so he must not wreck his 
life by idle dreaming. His happiness meant all to her — no 
sacrifice ever too great to make for Jimmie — her Jimmie, 
whose kindly black face was more dear to her than he could 
ever know. 

The years passed by, six all told, and Jimmie’s Mammy 
passed away, but not so the forbidden love of childhood’s 
fancy. His loving Mammy had entered the world which knows 
no creeds nor color, but her son remained to fight the unequal 
battle no black man ever won. 

Jimmie did not live in idleness. He studied all he could, and 
from menial labor rose to a clerical position. He had never 
lost an opportunity to act as unknown guardian to the fair 
daughter of the proud Southern family, but as he grew older 
he exercised more judgment. 

He was ever mindful of the admonitions of his dear old 
Mammy, and in the stillness of the night, with head bowed and 
on bended knees, he talked to her just as he had the night of 
the day she had met him at the hedge. Told her all his troubles 
and felt she was near. Many times he tried to mingle with his 
race but he could not. Their ways were not his ways. 

Always before him was a mental picture of Cecile Fairfield 

all else mockery. No surroundings where he was welcome 

could frame that picture. 

Three months passed without his being able to see her — 
the longest time which had elapsed since she was ten and he 


20 


JIM CROW 


was twelve. No trace could he find of her. The fear arose 
within him that his mission had been surmised. He became a 
wanderer in the hope chance might enable him to find her. 

It was summer, so he reasoned she might be found at some 
fashionable watering place. The little fund he had been able 
to save soon became exhausted, so he worked and tramped 
his way to the Atlantic seaboard. 

In a little town he found her, and felt content for the first 
time since he had lost her. It mattered not to him if he was 
ill treated, scoffed at and called all the contemptuous names 
ever invented for the black man. Since he had left his 
Southern home he had become accustomed to all that — he had 
found her and nothing else mattered. 

Jimmie obtained employment in a humble capacity after 
much difficulty. 

Early one morning as he strolled along the sand near the 
hotel which sheltered the magnet of his life, he saw her ap- 
proaching in bathing costume accompanied by her maid. No 
other people were in sight. Handing to her maid a robe which 
she discarded, the girl entered the surf. 

Jimmie watched her as she struck boldly out with strong 
strokes — that young girl of buoyant health and happy life. 
He, Jimmie Brainbridge of the race unfit to live except to 
serve. Possessed of equal manhood as any man she knew, 
subject to the same human feelings, but by chance of birth, an 
outcast, not worthy in his own thought to be an intruder at 
that moment. 

As he watched her, fascinated by her courage and skill, he 
saw her two small hands suddenly raised as if in supplication, 
and then she disappeared. Quickly he plunged into the surf 
and with strong and rapid strokes swam towards her. She 
had gone beneath the waves for the third time when he 
reached the place he had seen her disappear. He dived and 
swimming under water found her. With the unconscious form 


JIM CROW 


21 


of the girl who had so long been his ward, he swam towards 
the shore. As he neared the beach, men summoned by the 
panic-stricken maid, hastened to render assistance. Jimmie’s 
strength was fast leaving him, but with grim determination he 
held the fair girl’s face above the water, and although many 
times himself submerged, struggled to reach the shore. With 
the last of his strength, he raised the girl above him, and as 
helping hands eagerly relieved him of his charge, he sank back 
— back to join the Mother who alone had loved him. 

A few days later the sea tenderly laid Jimmie upon the 
shore, and kindly folks laid him to rest in a little village of the 
dead near by. And then — if only Jimmie could have known 
it — a little fair haired Southern girl knelt beside his resting 
place, and prayed God might reward him. 


RODMAN, BUCCANEER 


I. 

Ernest Rodman, the youngest son of an English country 
gentleman, attended a rural school in Derby until he attained 
the age of fourteen years. 

He was a studious, quiet boy, and it was prophesied if health 
sustained him, the name Rodman would be renowned through- 
out the English Empire. He was frail, rather small for his age, 
but possessed of remarkable endurance. 

It was decided life at sea might better his chances of attain- 
ing manhood, unhampered by uncertain health. Accordingly, 
he shipped as a cabin boy on a vessel chartered in the West 
Indian trade. 

During the next seven years he had visited every sea port 
of importance in the world, risen to the position of first mate 
on a brig of large tonnage, and mastered every oath known to 
civilization. 

He was handsome, powerfully built and fearless. While 
necessity made him rough in manner towards the seamen 
under him, he was a courtly, polished gentleman when off duty. 
He was fond of study, and few men of the leisure class were 
as well read as he. Sailors forgave his exactions in discipline, 
because no son of Neptune was ever known to have appealed 
to him for charity and been refused. He was generous, kindly 
and considerate without distinction as to race, creed or color. 

So in China as in England, no master kept his ship in port 
overtime waiting to complete a crew when Rodman was known 
to be on board. 


RODMAN, BUCCANEER 


23 


He was considered in shipping circles as a talisman, and it 
had been often said of him if rodents were leaving a vessel, 
sailors would throw superstition to the winds and gladly ship 
with Rodman. 

As the staunch brig “Casper,” Boston bound, raced before 
a stiff breeze with all sails set, Rodman paced the deck, ever 
alert to a sailor’s shortcomings or a caprice of Boreas. 

The wind blew stronger, the ship plowed deeper, and all 
hands were piped on deck to shorten sail. A topsail blew 
away, and a spar broke from its fastenings, striking Rodman a 
glancing blow on the head as it crashed to the deck. 

Many days he lay in his berth. 

When he again went on duty apparently as well and strong 
as before the mishap, no one observed any change in him — 
excepting himself. 

His views on social conditions were revolutionized. What 
before had stood for law and order seemed tyranny. Wealth 
made slaves for its chance possessors. Governments declared 
what was right or wrong solely because they were stronger 
than the individual. “Might was right” in civilization just as 
much so as it was in the days of the cave men — a thin veneer 
of culture the only difference. Many a king had ascended a 
throne by force and become recognized as a rightful ruler. 
The vessel he sailed belonged to arrogant wealth, its crew and 
himself were the slaves of its owners. If might was fair for 
one it was fair for all. Thus he reasoned until it became an 
obsession with him. 

Then with cunning, he carefully planned to captain the good 
ship “Casper,” live by might and share his booty with the crew. 
He lost no opportunity to avail himself of the good will the 
sailors bore him, and patiently imbued their simple minds with 
his teachings, until the time might be ripe for action. He did 
not lack tact or judgment, and the few of the crew he knew he 
could not sway, he cautioned the others not to approach. 


24 


RODMAN. BUCCANEER 


So as Captain Van Brunt lay dreaming in his cabin one calm 
night, Rodman, with three of his followers, stealthily entered 
and made him captive. The members of the ship’s company 
to whom he had not made known his plans, he then had sent, 
one by one, to the captain’s cabin to report, and as each one 
entered, he was made a prisoner. The captain and the four 
members of the crew thus entrapped were put in irons in the 
hold, the sailors to be starved into submission, and the captain 
put aboard the first vessel to be despoiled. 

The “Casper” carried a general cargo suitable to the needs 
of Rodman. Small arms in crates, eight guns of average 
caliber and ammunition, besides plenty of food stuffs. All this 
he knew before he put his plan in operation. 

The ship’s course was changed and she was headed towards 
the West Indies. 

The large guns were mounted on deck but cleverly con- 
cealed, and the crew taught the use of arms. Every day target 
practice with small arms was made obligatory, and the men 
made use of the cannon when the open sea permitted. 

Several vessels were sighted, but left to pursue their course 
unmolested during the first two weeks as Rodman wanted to 
make sure of his crew, both as to gunnery and fidelity. He had 
tested them in every way he could conceive so as to be sure 
of their not deserting his cause at the critical time. Three of 
the members who had been imprisoned joined Rodman, but 
one stood firmly by the captain. 

Whatever change in Rodman’s mental faculties had taken 
place, cruelty had no part in his new identity. This obdurate 
sailor was given food, and scheduled to join the captain as a 
guest on the same vessel. 

II. 


At last convinced he could depend upon his crew, Rodman 
became impatient to commence his life of adventure and gain. 


RODMAN. BUCCANEER 


25 


A small schooner was sighted to leeward early one morning 
and the “Casper” bore down upon her. A shot was fired 
across her bows and she hove to. Rodman, with six of his 
crew, armed only with pistols, launched a small boat and 
boarded her. The pirate’s flag was raised on the “Casper,” 
and the small unarmed merchantman submitted to search with- 
out resistance. 

Little money rewarded Rodman’s first adventure, but he rid 
himself of two unwelcome passengers — the captain and his 
faithful seaman. 

It humored Rodman to know that as soon as that little vessel 
reached its destination, “Rodman” would no longer be an 
obscure name. He gloried in being free of the convention- 
alities of life, and was willing to take whatever fate had in 
store for him, confident he could cope with the uncertainties 
of the pirate’s life as successfully as any of his brethern known 
to fame. 

One rule he made mandatory with his crew — no life was to 
be taken except in self defence. He would rather fail in an 
undertaking than resort to useless murder. This law, so foreign 
to the pirate code, cost Rodman and his followers many oppor- 
tunities to increase their spoils. 

Several months the “Casper” preyed on smaller vessels, until 
the magnitude of the reward for her capture or destruction, 
tempted even other foes of commerce. But Rodman was 
evasive, and his chief security his policy of preying only upon 
the smaller merchantmen. So his intolerance for cruelty was 
its own reward, as an attack upon larger vessels meant re- 
sistance, bloodshed and possible defeat. 

He knew it would not take many months of the life he led 
to make all the money within reason he could use, and then — 
well, the world was large and its hiding places many. 

In diverse ways was the pirate ship “Casper” known to be 
different from any other flying the skull and cross-bones. Her 


26 


RODMAN. BUCCANEER 


captain and crew were never known to indulge in drunken 
orgies, vessels were searched systematically, supplies and 
money only confiscated. Stranger still, members of crews of 
vessels victimized were treated with courtesy, and piracy re- 
duced to a purely commercial enterprise. 

Rodman, buccaneer, became known throughout the world 
as a man of mystery. His conduct was such as to cause many 
mariners to believe him only a myth. No man ever guessed 
the truth. 

So he pursued his trade until one day at early dawn the 
“Casper” was sighted by a man-o’-war. Rodman knew a few 
hours test of speed would determine his future. As much sail 
was spread on the brig as she could carry and the chase began. 
Slowly the larger vessel gained. It was hardly noticeable for 
the first few hours, but as the wind freshened, the man-o’-war 
lessened the distance between them. 

The wind died down, a fog arose, and the “Casper” lost its 
pursuer. 

But within the few hours of that pursuit, Rodman regained 
his mental poise as suddenly as he had lost it. To continue a 
life of lawlessness was as abhorrent to him now, as law and 
order had been to him before. Condemned by all mankind as 
beyond the pale of human intercourse, responsible for the lives 
of the misguided wretches who had done his bidding, Rodman 
faced a problem as great as it was unmerited. 

He could not expect his wrong doing to be pardoned on 
the gound of madness, when sanity was present in all his 
actions. No violence of temper, no irrational act, no patent 
illusions marked his mental lapse. 

He must take his choice of the gallows for himself and crew, 
remain a despoiler or lose his identity. 

111 . 

Rodman rightfully reasoned it was no fault of his if fate had 


RODMAN, BUCCANEER 


27 


decreed he should incur the enmity of all nations during the 
period of his mental irresponsibility. 

To surrender meant certain death, but to continue the life 
of a buccaneer seemed worse. 

While he had wrongfully taken the property of others, no 
blood was on his hands, and restitution might yet be possible. 
But the crew made the problem most difficult. Would they 
consent to restitution when through him they had risked all? 
Would they abandon a pirate’s life on the plea of the man who 
had mislead them, supported by no stronger argument than his 
own statement of temporary insanity — they who had always 
believed him sane? 

He realized it was useless for him to try to persuade them 
to change their mode of life, but necessity had changed the 
mode of life of countless thousands. So on the pretext of 
avoiding the danger of capture by the warship which had 
pursued them, he had the brig’s course changed, and de- 
termined to make the American port to which the “Casper’s” 
cargo had been consigned. 

It was his plan to enter the harbor at night, abandon the 
brig, and with his crew in the small boats, make for a point 
further up the coast. Once landed under cover of darkness on 
a deserted section of the beach, they could separate and pursue 
their different ways — follow the sea or become landsmen as 
fancy might impel them. 

It had been his custom to keep a strict account of their ill 
gotten gains for the purpose of a division among them. He 
carefully checked the inventory, listed the amount of spoils 
collected from their victims, and placed the memorandum in 
the brig’s strong box, together with a letter requesting the 
owners of the vessel to properly distribute the loot among the 
rightful owners. 

As many days passed and no sign of danger appeared, the 
crew became restless, and wondered why the brig’s course was 
not changed. She was placing hundreds of miles between her 


28 


RODMAN. BUCCANEER 


and the proper cruising grounds for her trade. Rodman made 
no explanation, and for a time his crew asked none — more the 
result of implicit faith in their captain than lack of anxiety. 

Rodman had chosen for his first mate, a Swede of much 
ability as a navigator, known to be clear headed and self- 
possessed. He had selected him as a man to be depended 
upon in almost any emergency. Lately, Rodman had ob- 
served the first mate talking longer to members of the crew 
than was his wont. He gave it little thought until the Swede 
entered his cabin one night and announced himself as spokes- 
man for his shipmates. 

He informed Rodman that in two more days the “Casper” 
would be in Boston, unless her course was changed, and every 
man aboard of her would be wearing a hangman’s noose. 

Without a moment’s hesitation, Rodman, with one smashing 
blow, knocked his first mate prone upon the cabin floor, and 
drawing his pistol told him one outcry meant death. He then 
bound him securely, and ascending the deck faced his crew. 

With pistol still in hand he asked if the message of the first 
mate meant mutiny. No voice answered him, but the dark 
looks he received could not be mistaken. Rodman felt no 
anger. He had felt none towards his first mate. 

His followers were right in thinking he might mean to betray 
them, and self preservation is a cardinal rule, justifiable under 
any circumstances. 

However, this was no time for an analysis of human rights 
and wrongs — but quick action. As Rodman calmly faced that 
crew of desperate men he gave no sign of apprehension — fear 
and he were strangers. 

In a quiet voice he told them of his plans, and what had 
happened to their spokesman. That he was to return to his 
cabin, and had enough powder stored there to blow the 
“Casper” and its crew to atoms. That the Swede would in- 
struct the crew from time to time, how to make Boston harbor, 
standing in the cabin doorway with Rodman’s pistol at his 


RODMAN. BUCCANEER 


29 


head, and if the brig changed her course for two minutes, 
the “Casper” and its crew would be only an unpleasant mem- 
ory in maritime circles. 

Facing his crew he backed his way to his cabin. A minute 
later the Swede appeared at the cabin door, ordered the men 
to return to duty, and the “Casper” held her course. 

A storm arose the following day, and the brig had to lay 
to under bare poles. She dragged her anchor during the night, 
and the next day an attempt was made to raise enough sail 
to keep her under control, but it was found impossible. She 
raced before the Northeaster until at dusk the second day of 
the storm, she struck the shoals. The combers raked her fore 
and aft, and Rodman, his mate and crew lashed themselves 
in the rigging. 

The following morning the storm abated, and by evening 
the sea had ceased to sweep the decks. During that period of 
peril, none thought of ought else than his own safety — the 
closeness of death calming all human passions. 

The “Casper,” with cabin and forecastle gone, and hold full 
of water, was now a hopeless wreck. The small boats had 
been swept away, and the crew, under the direction of Rod- 
man, proceeded to make a raft on which it was hoped to gain 
the shore. The raft was launched, and Rodman and his hardy 
crew lashed themselves to it. Many times it was awash before 
it drifted on the beach. 

When they had regained their strength, they investigated 
their surroundings, and found themselves on a long stretch 
of sand, a peninsula formed by the ocean on one side and a 
bay on the other. No habitations were found excepting a few 
deserted fishermen’s huts. 

In search of a more promising environment, most of the 
pirate crew of the good brig “Casper” wandered away to 
parts unknown, but Rodman and a few of his followers re- 
mained to become forgotten ancestors of some of our good 
people of Barnegat. 


THE ORIENTAL CHARM 


(A Detective Story — a La “Movies”) 

“Hello, Jimmie!” 

“Good evening, Mr. Hiller est.” 

Two men so exchanged greetings late one winter’s night 
in front of 1 1 Wall Street. The former was James Buchanan, 
policeman, whose beat included the heart of the financial dis- 
trict. Mr. Hillcrest was senior member of the banking house 
of Hillcrest & Co., president of the Independent National Bank 
and a director in many large industrial corporations. 

As the man of large affairs proceeded in the direction of 
the subway, which he daily took enroute to his mansion on 
Riverside Drive, the policeman resumed his duties as con- 
servator of the peace and protector of property. 

It was a cold night in February and Jimmie longed for the 
hour when his partner would relieve him from duty. 

Patiently he tried the doors of the buildings, looked in the 
lower windows of offices in which dim incandescent lights 
were left burning to better enable the guardians of society to 
detect intruders. 

Many times he thought of his little flat up town which 
harbored all worth while in life to him. 

He had been on the force almost five years and had not 
made any record other than is the due of every man who per- 
forms his duty faithfully. Sometimes he wondered why he had 
been assigned to the post he patrolled. Better men than he 
occupied posts of much less importance. 

He walked to Broadway, then south to Exchange Place, 


THE ORIENTAL CHARM 


31 


along that narrow street to Broad, then back to Wall Street — 
and No. 1 1 . He did not understand what impulse caused him 
to thus deviate from his accustomed route which covered many 
additional blocks in the district. But we all do whimsical 
things at times. 

11 Wall Street was a low building as compared with its 
neighbors of more recent construction. It was of brick, its 
front entrance being protected by a wrought-iron gateway. 

Many nights he had passed that same structure and it had 
not impressed him as being different than others on his beat. 
There was nothing unusual about it now. It looked no more 
sombre than any other old fashioned building down town in 
the darkness of the night. Not a light was visible in any of its 
windows. 

He mechanically tried the iron gateway. It was unfastened. 
Mr. Hillcrest had emerged from that building a little while 
before and in his abstraction had probably forgotten to lock it. 

Glancing at his watch he observed it was past twelve and 
wondered what had detained the banker as late hours down 
town were not his custom — he was punctuality itself. 

He knew the banker had a private office there. 

Perhaps Mr. Hillcrest had also forgotten the lock on the 
wooden door. He pushed aside the iron gateway and as he 
did so its hinges made a rasping noise. What was that? As 
he approached the wooden door he thought he detected a 
sound like a muffled groan. 

Clutching his night-stick firmly he entered. All was quiet. 
He felt his way to the stairway, cautiously began its ascent. 

As he gained the first corridor, an arc light from the street 
threw an uncertain light through a window at its end, upon the 
glass panelled office doors. He could decipher from the large 
black letters, the names of some of the tenants, for the most 
part corporations whose claim to public recognition went no 
further. 


32 


THE ORIENTAL CHARM 


He remained quiet for a little while. Not a sound could be 
heard. 

He noiselessly began the ascent of the second stairway when 
the same human sound, only more muffled, caused him to 
abruptly stop. Intently he listened, unable to determine 
whether it was below or above him. 

He was used to dark places, deserted streets and buildings. 
A cry of alarm would determine action in a moment, but 
that almost inaudible sound in that old building of deceptive 
echos caused his blood to tingle and his nerves to stand on 
edge. The groan of a fellow being in the broad day light is ap- 
palling enough, but in the silence of the night, alone in that old 
structure it seemed terrifying. 

Unable to stand inaction longer, the officer proceeded 
noiselessly to the second corridor. It looked like the first, rows 
of glass panelled doors. Here the arc from the street threw a 
still more uncertain light. 

He quietly paced the length of this corridor, and was about 
to ascend the next flight of stairs, when in passing a door he 
thought he heard a sound within. In gold letters upon its glass 
panel was the inscription, “HENRY WHARTON HILL- 
CREST.” He tried the door but found it locked. He hes- 
itated. Again a sound within that room. 

Bracing his broad shoulders against the door he put his 
weight against it — it yielded. All was dark as he entered. He 
groped around in search of the light switch, found it and turned 
on the lights. 

He had been in sumptuous offices but he had never seen 
anything to compare with it in luxury. Its furniture and 
appointments seemed so out of place in that old building. He 
walked around the office but found nothing to explain 
the sound he thought he had heard. Maybe the confusing 
echos of that old structure were at fault. He turned out the 
lights, closed the door after him and was about to proceed up 


THE ORIENTAL CHARM 


33 


the next flight of stairs, when again a sound within that room. 
It seemed uncanny. 

Returning he again turned the light switch. He found 
nothing. Could there be any significance in the silence of that 
room when illuminated? He left it, closed the door after him 
and proceeded to ascend the stairway. Noiselessly he re- 
turned, seated himself in one of the hugh cushioned chairs and 
waited. 

In a little while he felt drowsy and oppressed. The air 
seemed heavy. The feeling of oppression became greater. 
With an effort he arose and left the room. Once in the corridor 
the strange sensation left. He returned, flooded the room 
with light, and proceeded to examine every object with care. 
As he aproached a table upon which stood a desk telephone 
he noticed a strong, pungent odor, and was surprised to 
find that it came from the receiver of the instrument. What 
appeared to be an attached wire, proved to be a hollow tube. 
He lost no time in opening the windows and placing the 
instrument on a ledge. 

The only door in the office was the one through which he 
had entered. 

He realized an invisible and cunning criminal threatened his 
safety at that moment. 

His attention was attracted to a filing case which appeared 
to be imbeded in the wall — its iron door seemed to have 
moved. With drawn revolver, he grasped the knob of the 
door, and as he threw it open was nearly staggered by a 
glancing blow from a great iron weight, automatically released. 

The door guarded the entrance to a luxuriously furnished 
drawing room, decorated in gold. The room was unoccupied. 
At its further end was a curtained door. Pushing aside the 
portier he found himself in a large room dimly lighted by many 
colored lights and hung with oriental drapery. 

Complaisantly standing in the centre of the room, with arms 


34 


THE ORIENTAL CHARM 


crossed, stood the tall, lithe form of a dark visaged Hindoo. 
Lying on a canopied couch in one corner of the room was 
the form of a beautiful young girl. Silk cords fastened her 
wrists and ankles. She seemed unconscious. 

As he approached the East Indian, the latter raised his right 
hand as if in warning. 

The officer leveled his revolver and at the same instant the 
Hindoo sprang at him and knocked it from his grasp. While 
nature had been generous to him in her endowment of strength, 
Jimmie soon realized the fierceness of the struggle which en- 
sued meant life or death to him. The Hindoo seemed pos- 
sessed of unlimited endurance. As they struggled Jimmie no 
longer had any doubts as to the origin of that piteous moan — 
the girl upon the couch. He at last succeeded in his effort to 
clutch the throat of the Hindoo. As he tightened his grip upon 
it and the strength of his adversary began to leave, he threw 
him and recovered his revolver. 

He quickly handcuffed the East Indian, and loosening the 
cords which bound the girl, securely bound him. 

As the officer bent over the unconscious form upon the 
couch he heard a light step behind him. Turning quickly he 
was in time to avoid a crushing blow from a Turkish sabre 
wielded by a masked man. 

The officer leveled his revolver at his assailant and fired. 
The man fell motionless. Removing the mask, Jimmie was 
surprised to recognize in his intended murderer, Henry Whar- 
ton Hillcrest. 

Turning again to the couch he tried to revive the young girl. 
As he bent near her he seemed to feel a sense of dizziness. He 
thought it the result of reaction. 

His attention was attracted to a thin gold chain encircling 
the neck of the young woman. An oddly shaped charm, 
studded with many diamonds was attached to it. A delicate 
perfume was noticeable, and the feeling of dizziness became 


THE ORIENTAL CHARM 


35 


more pronounced. Breaking the chain he hastily threw the 
charm far distant from him. He knew now the reason for that 
sense of giddiness. 

The girl responded to his efforts to revive her. 

The man from the land of mystics, true to the traditions of 
his kind, never disclosed anything concerning the secrets of 
his dead master. 

The girl knew nothing of them. She had called in response 
to an advertisement for an office assistant, became drowsy 
while in the outer office and although at all times conscious, 
could testify to nothing other than the steadfast vigilence of 
the crafty Hindoo. 

So paid the banker the penalty for his dual existence, and 
thus was removed one menace to young womanhood in metro- 
politan life. 


THE HEART BREAKERS 

Tom Caulkins was college bred, tall of figure and handsome 
of face. 

The very day he hung his sheepskin on the wall of his den 
in the palatial Long Island residence of his indulgent father, he 
soliloquized thus: “What is the use of my entering upon a 
business or professional career when Dad has made more 
money than 1 can spend? What does Will Bachman profit by 
working as hard as he does? His father is wealthy too, and 
Bill has been in his father’s banking house for ten years, getting 
up at seven every morning, having a bite for lunch, and ar- 
riving home at five o’clock, too tired to find allurement in any- 
thing but the sheets. He has no time for motoring and social 
diversions — and as to girls, why Bill does not even know the 
rudiments of feminine whims. All the money in the world 
can give one no more than luxury and leisure. The life of the 
parasite is good enough for Tom Caulkins, Jr.” 

Thoroughly convinced as to the soundness of his philosophy, 
Tom had for the past six years spent his time in idleness and 
the pursuit of pleasure. He was a leader of the younger social 
set and being regarded by matrons and their dutiful daughters 
as such a very good catch, he had concluded he was invincible 
in the gentle art of love making. 

He was not exactly what might be termed conceited, but his 
environment had given him much self assurance. Many photo- 
graphs adorned his room — souvenirs of his victories over 
femininity. 

He could drive a car with skill, a golf ball with dexterity, 
and never failed to do the right thing at the right time in com- 
pliance with a complex social system. He found his life a little 


THE HEART BREAKERS 


37 


monotonous at times, but always consoled himself with the 
thought that he would have found business more so. 

When he received an invitation in the late Fall from his 
friend, Will Bachman, to join his camp in the Adriondacks, 
he decided he could not very well decline it. 

One bright October morning Tom arrived at the camp well 
supplied with all attire appropriate for the occasion, not failing 
to remember his evening clothes, more the result of habit than 
expectancy. 

The camp of Will Bachman was located on the bank of a 
picturesque river, five miles distant from the nearest settle- 
ment. 

A few days sufficed to satisfy Tom he was never intended 
to live a life in the open. He had never cared for boating 
and found fishing exacted more patience than he could spare. 

So he was delighted one morning when a party from the 
camp decided to visit the nearest village. He felt it would be 
a relief to be where there were at least a scattering of hab- 
itations and new faces — no matter how rustic. 

Accordingly he seated himself in the centre of the canoe 
and with lazy satisfaction watched Bachman and another chum 
laboriously paddle the little craft on its way. When near the 
village of Berkley the canoe struck a submerged log, cap- 
sized, and Tom had the misfortune to fracture a rib by con- 
tact with the offending log. 

He was brought to shore by his companions and after con- 
sultation with the local doctor it was decided he could be 
better cared for in the settlement than in camp. 

Accordingly, reservations were made at a comfortable 
boarding house for Tom and Bachman — his host declaring he 
would not return to camp until the patient had sufficiently re- 
covered to return with him. No amount of argument by Tom 
could make Bachman change his mind. 


38 


THE HEART BREAKERS 


Bachman spent the morning following the accident reading 
aloud to his friend, but did not find him an attentive listener. 
As a matter of fact, Tom was berating himself for ever having 
been induced by any consideration to leave comfort behind 
for the hardships of camp life, and considered his present 
plight a fitting punishment. 

At the same boarding house lived a pretty young woman 
whose interest was centered in trying to make her invalid father 
content. 

Mr. Baker and his daughter had lived in Berkley several 
years — ever since an accident incapacitated Mr. Baker for 
further service as a mechanic in a large manufacturing concern 
in New York. Since his injury Mr. Baker had lived upon the 
small pension allotted him by his former employer, and 
“Happy,*’ as his daughter was by acclamation christened in 
the village, augmented the slender fund by her skill in needle- 
work. 

Irene had passed part of her twenty years at boarding 
school. She was quiet, refined and her cheerfulness made her 
a general favorite. 

During the days Tom was confined to his room, his chum, 
Bachman, spent several hours with her each day, either stroll- 
ing through the countryside or watching her embroidering. 
It seemed to Bachman she was different from any other girl 
he had ever met and his interest in her grew stronger every 
day. 

The first morning Tom was able to leave his room, he made 
himself comfortable in a large arm-chair on the porch and 
made calculations as to how soon he would be able to return 
home and forget the sleepy village of Berkley. 

Looking up the road he noticed Bachman approaching, ac- 
companied by the girl. At first he wondered and then became 
amused. It seemed so incongruous to see Will with a girl — and 
no doubt a country lass at that. 


THE HEART BREAKERS 


39 


After Tom had been introduced to the fair stranger, he was 
impatient for an opportunity to tease his chum about her. 
When he later jokingly referred to her, he was amazed to find 
his friend resentful. 

Tom realized Bachman was in earnest, and as he became 
better acquainted with Miss Baker he did not find it so hard 
to understand the seriousness of Bachman’s interest in her. In 
fact, he became attracted himself, and found justification in 
the old motto “all is fair in love and war.’* 

He determined to relieve the monotony of his enforced stay 
in the country with a little innocent lovemaking. He did not 
arrive at this conclusion without some sympathy for his friend, 
but after all it might be better for Will in the end as it would 
save him from marrying a girl not in his own class. 

Long experience had taught Tom the ways of the bashful 
girl. He spent as much time in the presence of Miss Baker as 
possible. 

Will did not seem to be much of a success as a rival — he 
was altogether too backward. In fact, after a few days of 
ardent campaigning on the part of Tom, Bachman seemed to 
withdraw altogether, and finally announced he would return 
to the camp. 

Sometime after the departure of his friend, Tom realized 
he was madly in love. It was a new sensation to him and no 
amount of reasoning with himself proved of any avail. 

Having recovered his health, he decided to return home and 
amid the familiar pleasures he had previously enjoyed, torget 
the pretty face and gentle ways of “Happy.’’ 

A whole month Tom fought with himself in a vain effort to 
master his love for the girl. It seemed incredible to him that 
the god of love could have conquered as experienced a veteran 
as he had always regarded himself. 

He had thought of the difference in their social positions, 


40 


THE HEART BREAKERS 


but he was willing to sacrifice everything for her. Things in 
which he formerly found pleasure he no longer enjoyed. 

Were he to marry the girl he felt his father would no doubt 
disinherit him and he would be obliged to work like any 
plebian. Maybe work might not be such a bad thing after all. 
Certainly as compared to living without Irene it was not to be 
weighed in the balance. 

His philosophy of life underwent a complete change, and 
he decided to return to Berkley, press his suit for the hand 
of the mechanic’s daughter, return with his bride and gladly 
accept whatever punishment might be meted out to him by 
Mr. Thomas Caulkins, Sr. 

He carefully packed his trunks, checked them for Berkely 
and once enroute for the little village he had despised, felt 
joyful for the first time since he had left it. 

Miss Baker seemed surprised to see him but greeted him 
with the smile which had haunted him for the past month. 

He knew his part too well to evidence to her the seriousness 
of his thought, until she of the weaker sex should show some 
sign of her affection. 

He had expected to remain only a few weeks, but as time 
passed and the girl of his heart gave no indication of the 
fraility of her sex, decided to remain if it took all winter. 

His friends were at a loss to understand Tom’s prolonged 
stay in the Adriondacks advancing many theories, but re- 
ceived no enlightenment in letters from him. 

He used all the wiles experience had taught him and finally 
concluded the only barrier was the bashfulness of the future 
Mrs. Caulkins. 

So one clear, cold day in January, as Tom was on his knees 
adjusting a loosened skate strap encircling her dainty ankle, 
he ardently declared his love, and told her all it meant to him. 


THE HEART BREAKERS 


41 


The girl made no answer, but the look of compassion with 
which she regarded Tom seemed to make speech unnecessary. 

Grief, pride and anger strove for supremacy within him. 
He had never doubted that the girl would gladly accept him. A 
man who had been sought by the fair daughters of aristocrats, 
rejected by this little unassuming girl. 

But pride and anger failed to stimulate him as he read only 
pity in the large dark eyes of the girl, who with lips half 
parted seemed unable to break the silence. 

Grief mastered him as he realized all he had lost, and in the 
madness of the moment he drew the girl to him, only to 
quickly release her as he recovered his composure. 

The little ice pond with its merry skaters seemed to mock 
him. A few minutes before no one was more happy than he. 
Now he wanted to be far from the sound of laughter. 

The girl, as if reading his thoughts, commenced to remove 
her skates. He restrained her and performed that little 
courtesy, all the while wondering if he would ever have the 
courage to go through life now that he had lost all worth while 
to him. 

As they walked together towards the village, the girl lightly 
placed a small hand on his arm and with averted face said 
simply “I am so sorry, Tom.” It seemed no time for con- 
versation. 

He said nothing until they had nearly arrived at their des- 
tination, when in desperation he asked her if there was not 
some chance she might some day change her mind. Her 
reply crushed that sustaining hope. 

“Happy” was engaged. 

To whom? 

Mr. Bachman. Had his friend not told him? 

That night Tom did not even try to seek forgetfulness in 
sleep. He retired to his room, and when all was quiet in the 


42 


THE HEART BREAKERS 


house he silently left it, and sought again the little deep water 
pond with its icy surface. It seemed to draw him to it. He 
rested upon the same log in front of which he had knelt to 
adjust the girl’s skate and mentally re-enacted all that had 
taken place there. 

Of all the men he knew, Will Bachman was the last one he 
had ever pictured as being able to win a girl. And Bachman 
did not seem to even try. 

Tom was his only close friend. Bachman was ten years 
older than he, but their friendship had commenced when Tom 
was a small boy and his friend had fished him out of the swim- 
ming hole, wet and with little life left in him. While there was 
nothing dashing about Bachman, he was the prince of good 
fellows, unselfish above all else. The quick perception of a 
woman had enabled her to understand his friend in fewer 
weeks than it had taken him years. 

Tom was too broad for jealousy. He felt his friend more 
deserving than himself, but few silver clouds were in his 
horizon since he would be obliged to go through life without 
the only girl he could ever love. 

He had cared for girls in the past it was true — many of 
them, but none seriously. Such love as he felt occurs only 
once in a lifetime. 

Near dawn he returned to the house and packed his trunks 
preparatory to his return to the city. He had decided that in 
work alone could he hope to find solace. 

As the time drew near for his departure he sought the girl 
for a last leave taking. He found her in the little parlor in- 
dustriously engaged with her sewing. As he approached she 
arose to greet him. At the sight of the slender, pretty girl of 
his choice, Tom forgot all he had intended saying. 

In his frank and boyish way he put his hands upon her 
shoulders and asked her to forgive the rudeness of his embrace 


THE HEART BREAKERS 


43 


the day before. As he awaited her answer he thought he saw 
just a hint of mischief in her eyes — and it hurt him. 

With her little hands behind her and her small face up- 
turned, she smiled as she replied, “Tom, 1 knew the first day 
I met you, women to you were toys. They amused you for 
a little while and then you tired of them. It mattered nothing 
if they grew fond of you. When they did, they ceased to amuse 
you. In your opinion they had lost in the game with you — a 
game in which women are supposed to excel, and you felt you 
owed them nothing. But I — I love you, Tom, even if I am 
engaged to Mr. Bachman — as cashier.*’ 

The world brightened so suddenly for Tom as he clasped 
her to him, he hardly realized he had been beaten in the game 
he knew so well — and yet had won the prize. 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 


I. 

The war had held dread sway for more than two years. 
The draft on young manhood had been heavy, but the mother 
of Wallace Worthington hoped the conflict might terminate 
before her only boy should be old enough to be called to the 
colors. 

A bright and manly young chap was Wallace. Seventeen 
years had not endowed him with as much wisdom as some of 
his elders in Devonshire, but otherwise he did not suffer by 
comparison. Tall for his age, erect in hearing and broad of 
shoulders, he made a fine appearance as he presented himself 
at a recruiting station, and solemnly declared himself of proper 
age for service. 

Enlisted, he proudly returned home to reconcile his mother 
to his sacrifice. It meant much to Wallace. The war might 
last for years to come or he might never return, but the coun- 
try had as much right to his life as those of its other sons. 
Perhaps fortune might favor him and he return an officer of 
rank — all would be happy then for his loving mother and 
pretty Mary. 

Since his early school days he had loved Mary Preston. Their 
homes were close together, the school house more than a mile 
distant, but Wallace thought it the shortest mile in the world 
as he trudged homeward with brown eyed Mary. 

With the hope of youth in the ascendency and military cap 
in hand, Wallace saluted the astonished Mrs. Worthington. The 
scene which followed long remained in his memory. The 
experience of maturity was no match for the buoyancy of im- 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 


45 


maturity, and as long as the world lasts the result will be ever 
the same. 

Leaving his saddened mother, Wallace somewhat depressed 
but no less determined, sought and found his little playmate. 
The romantic spirit of Mary contrasted strongly with the 
seriousness of Mrs. Worthington. In the friendly shelter of an 
arbor, Mary laid the foundation of their aerial castle, and 
Wallace finished its highest peak. 

Three years passed and the war had not ended. Wallace 
was still a private, had become an expert in trench work and 
ceased to dream of gold braid. His contact with men from 
all walks in life had broadened him, and his love for the little 
girl at home had grown from a childhood fancy to absorbing 
seriousness. At times of danger he thought of her, and 
wondered would she learn his fate if he fell a victim to one of 
those shells which leaves no last duties to be performed for 
those it kills. 

Trench warfare gives little opportunity for individual recog- 
nition, but it sorely tests the patience of the soldier. In the 
few attacks Wallace had been permitted to take part, he had 
won for himself the admiration of his fellows and been dec- 
orated for bravery. 

After a period of several weeks of comparative inactivity, 
the enemy commenced a furious bombardment of the advance 
trenches and the usual attack by infantry was expected to 
follow. Wallace was assigned with other men of known steadi- 
ness of nerves to hold the first trench to the last moment. The 
first line of trenches were mined in order that, if taken, they 
might be destroyed and the enemy with them. Few men 
were assigned to the first line trenches and they were to operate 
the machine guns as long as possible and then retreat. 

The expected advance commenced as soon as the bombard- 
ment by the enemy ceased, and Wallace continued to operate 
his machine gun long after the others in his trench had become 
silent. The advancing infantry momentarily halted and 


46 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 


Wallace condemned his fellows who had abandoned their 
guns in such haste. Suddenly a shell burst in front of him and 
Wallace knew no more. 

A corporal who had been sent to order him to retreat to the 
second line reached him in time to carry his unconscious form 
to a superior officer as mute evidence of obedience to orders. 
The cruel fate which had overtaken so many of his comrads 
had come to him — relegated to the rear a sightless patriot. 

During his long stay in the hospital he had ample time to 
realize his plight, but he never permitted despondency to sway 
him. While he had become blind in the service of his country, 
he was surrounded by those whose sacrifices in the same cause 
had been even greater — not counting the many thousands who 
had willingly laid down their lives. The years of bloody conflict 
which he had witnessed had hardened him to suffering, and 
Wallace was no greater coward in his misfortune than he had 
been under fire. 

Once as he reclined in an invalid’s chair on the sunny 
veranda of the hospital, he touched those emblems he had 
been awarded and determined he would merit them in his 
adversity. But the great sorrow of his life was Mary. Even 
if she could love him now it would be no other love than that 
which is akin to pity. He would be most selfish to marry her 
and burden her young life with his helplessness. Yet he loved 
her so. Always he fought against his love for her sake. 

His first act after his injury had been to ask that his plight 
should not be made known to those at home. He wondered at 
the touch of sympathy in the voice of his nurse as she replied 
that his request would be complied with. When he had re- 
covered his strength and was about to leave the hospital he 
understood the pity of the nurse — his mother would never 
know of his misfortune. 

With a fortitude known only to youth, sorrowing and sight- 
less he left to face the world. Possessed of a voice of re- 
markable sympathy in tone, he sought his living by its aid and 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 


47 


became a wanderer. Those who chanced to hear him seemed 
to forget his affliction and thought only of the voice. The 
assistance he received was most generous, but his consideration 
for those more needy than himself kept him ever poor. 

Thus for several years he roamed from city to city, hamlet 
to hamlet, until he became known to many thousands who 
never tired of his wonderful voice, or thought their alms a 
charity. 

Time had kindly made him reconciled to his plight, but 
nothing could efface his longing for the girl he loved. Vainly 
he fought against it, but gentle Mary was ever in his thoughts. 
He had avoided Devonshire, fearing he would not have the 
strength of purpose not to seek her. He had thought she 
would marry and be happy — he had only been a school boy 
lover, long since lost to the world which knew him. Should 
she see him now — pity — that would be all. He had lived by 
pity, and well knew how hungry it left the heart. He could 
not stand it from Mary — the Mary he knew and who loved 
him before all was night. 

But chance is the joker in the game of life. As he sang 
in the quiet of a summer’s evening in a little village in York, 
a voice joined him — a voice he could not mistake, Mary had 
found him — Mary Preston Collins. 

Two years before she had become the wife of a prosperous 
merchant of London and was summering in the little village. 

She had long since abandoned all hope of ever seeing 
Wallace. 

Broken hearted he pursued his wanderings, gratefully but 
firmly refusing the proffered aid of Mary and her kindly 
husband. 

11 . 

Years passed by until at the age of forty-five, Wallace had 
become a teacher of vocal music of international fame. Pov- 


48 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 


erty became a memory, and he the welcome guest in the man- 
sions of aristocracy. He still loved the Mary of his school 
days — but the Mary of later life was a stranger to him. 

It is the little things by which we judge each other — it was 
not the Mary of other years who had so thoughtlessly made 
her presence known by joining in his song. Had she been 
able to plan it, she could not have hurt him more. A kindly 
word of greeting from her at the time of their chance meeting, 
and he would have always pictured her as he had known her 
in his youth — and perhaps remained a needy wanderer and 
misguided dreamer. We are prone to think we carve out our 
own careers, little understanding how others do it for us. But 
Wallace understood, and knew he did no harm in loving 
Mary — as he once had known her. 

Among his pupils was Esther Collins, only child of Mary. 
Eighteen years of age, pretty and vivacious she had few whims 
she could not satisfy. Wallace regarded her as though she 
had chanced to be his own daughter. He saw in her much 
he had loved in Mary, and Esther seemed always happy while 
with him, making many pretexts to prolong her lessons. As 
time wore on he realized this young, innocent girl in reality 
loved him. It seemed incomprehensible to him. 

With tact he managed to see her less often, and finally 
arranged that her future musical course should be continued 
under the guidance of another instructor. But while he saw 
her seldom, and never when he could avoid it, he realized it 
was no childish fancy on the part of Esther. It presented a 
problem hard for Wallace to solve. Of two things he was 
certain — that if he had loved her he should not marry her, 
and she must not be hurt upon learning the truth. 

Wallace had come to regard women in a different way since 
Mary had proved inconstant. In his mind men attracted them 
for a little while only. If they married the men they singled 
out, they remained true to them only because they had be- 
come used to them — much as a piece of familiar furniture 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 


49 


around the household. If some other men appealed to them, 
they loved them in fancy if not otherwise. In fact, all women 
were children — uncertain in their affections. 

So with a kindness contrasting strongly with the thought- 
lessness of her mother, Wallace began to disillusion Esther. 
He became in her presence and as far as she could learn, the 
opposite to all she had thought him. Esther at first tried hard 
to reform Wallace, but in time became convinced it was im- 
possible, and became reconciled to his new and unsuspected 
self — much to his amazement. He tried in every way he could 
conceive to merit her indifference — Esther seemed to love him 
more. He even lived more humbly, denying himself things 
which before had seemed necessitis, but Esther, far from being 
discouraged by his apparent change in fortune, tried to supply 
him with the things he had denied himself. 

The young girl baffled Wallace. He had become accus- 
tomed to studying human nature as a matter of necessity, but 
Esther was the most complex and interesting subject he had 
ever known. Wallace began to regard her differently. Could 
it be possible fate had decreed that the daughter of the girl he 
had loved as a youth, should love him — love as he had loved 
her mother? Reason seemed against it, and Wallace had 
learned that in reason only was there safety. He decided to 
reason with Esther — all else had failed. 

She called to see her former instructor one birght sunny 
day in June, and found him in his garden. He arose as she 
approached, and his tall figure and handsome face made his 
misfortune seem the greater pity. She placed one small hand 
on his arm and gently guided him to a broad bench near by. 
In her child-like fashion she talked about things she thought 
would interest him, and seemed as much at home as though he 
were the visitor. Wallace said little to her, and finally Esther 
turned her pretty face from him, just as though he could tell — 
and remained silent. 


50 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 


Wallace waited a little while, and then taking her hand in 
his, gently said: “Esther, why pass so much time with a teacher, 
old enough to be your father, who would not even know you 
were pretty if he had not been told, and who does not know 
at this moment whether he has caused you to blush with dis- 
pleasure by holding your little hand?” 

No answer. 

“Esther, you should be amusing yourself as other young 
girls instead of passing hours with me, showing me every 
kindness known to gentle womanhood. Why do you do it, 
Esther? Pity?” 

Still no answer, but to his utter astonishment Esther, clasp- 
ing her dimpled arms around his neck, kissed him, and — was 
gone. 

Reason — reason and femininity were strangers. Wallace 
had not even thought of the possibility of impulse asserting 
itself at that interview with Esther. 

He blamed himself for taking her hand, but felt that did not 
fully account for Esther’s unexpected act. Pity? No, for once 
he knew he had not been pitied, and the joy he felt was new 
to him. In the past that seemed to have been the only motive 
for any kindness ever shown to him by all he knew. To be 
loved for himself meant more than he had known since the 
days of youth. Life seemed to have a future — until now he 
had lived in the past. But how much stronger was the reason 
he should not burden Esther than it had been in the case of her 
mother! He was many years older now. True his fortunes 
had changed, but he felt no amount of money could compen- 
sate Esther for his lack of youth. So it seemed to him he was 
destined to ever carry with him the same sorrow — transferred 
now from Mary to her daughter. 

What strange pranks fate plays with some of its victims! It 
seemed to him he might have been spared this second care, 
and grown old with the care of years only. Yet he was so 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 


51 


lonesome and it seemed such an uneven fight for him to make. 
But with the self sacrifice which had been a part of his life, he 
firmly resolved to make Esther forget him and to save her 
from the folly of her youth. The only course which seemed 
open to him was to depart from the new world Esther had 
created for him and become only a memory to those who 
knew him. Time would cause Esther to forget him and in her 
later years she would understand — and be grateful. So 
Wallace quietly made his preparations, took passage for 
America on a tramp steamer under an assumed name and so 
became lost to the world which had known him. 

III. 

He became a member of the Bohemian colony in New York, 
lived quietly for several years and used the major part of his 
ample income in helping those he thought did not deserve their 
adversity. He made no effort to forget Esther. At his age 
he knew that was useless. Every opportunity he had to show 
some little act of kindness he felt as if her gentle presence had 
prompted it. She seemed always with him because she was 
ever in his thoughts. 

One cold night in mid-winter as he trudged through the 
snow leaning lightly upon the arm of one of his new found 
friends, the latter suggested that they dine at a well known 
Hungarian restaurant in the vicinity on the lower East side. 
Wallace acquiesced and they were soon seated at a little table 
in a room where the smoke from poorly blended tobacco 
caused a feeling of discomfiture second only to the jumble of 
voices of many men and women. 

The scene around them was common enough in the great 
city — it was nothing new in the rural districts where road 
houses abound on well traveled turnpikes. Common enough — 
too common to be of interest to anyone in whom refinement 
has not become deadened by the habit of drink. Occasionally 
the shrill laughter of a woman could be heard above the din 


52 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 


and then again the curse of a drunken man. The stringed 
instruments added more of wierdness than melody. Wallace 
and his companion ordered little refreshment and waited its 
service with impatience. 

A space in the center of the room was cleared for dancing. 
The orchestra commenced to play Hawaian music, the 
voices ceased and a young woman alone danced in the open 
space. As the dancer neared the tables she threw carnations 
to the various diners. One struck Wallace in the face, the 
dancer noticed it and at the same moment recognized the man 
for love of whom she had abandoned all hope of happiness 
and become an outcast — to forget. 

Esther finished her dance, not with the abandon with which 
she had commenced it, but with a lassitude contrasting strongly 
with it — and little appealing to her audience. A young man 
approached her, roughly took her by the arm and led her from 
the room. 

Jack Hawley had seen much of life, had known such women 
to occasionally pause in their downward careers when some 
shock sobered them, but was at a loss to understand the 
sudden change which had come over the dancer at the sight 
of Wallace. Surely his blind friend did not know her. His 
whole interest seemed centered in his few friends and a hobby 
for searching out unfortunates unable to help themselves. 
Surely the pretty dancing girl, strong and in the prime of young 
womanhood did not belong to that class whatever moralists 
might consider her. She had but to will it, commence anew 
and her whole life would change. Society, tolerant of the 
patent errors of its sons and latent errors of its daughters, 
scorned the latter only when their acts became public, and so 
had no use for such as she. But the closed portals of society 
are no barrier to happiness — conscience only is the monitor. 
Society produced such girls and then sought to destroy them. 
Thus Jack, ex-libertine, mused as he walked homeward with 
Wallace. 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 


53 


As was his custom, Jack described the things he had seen 
to his blind friend making one pair of eyes serve for two. 
When he had finished his description of the dancing girl, he 
noticed that Wallace seemed abstracted, and was astonished 
when the latter suggested that they dine at the same restaurant 
the following evening. Could it be possible Wallace had a 
dual personality? But Jack dismissed that unkind thought, 
well as he knew the frailities of human nature. 

The following evening the two friends, seated in the same 
little restaurant but at a table in a recess of the room, had the 
same scene enacted before them with the exception that the 
girl finished her dance in a manner pleasing to her audience. 
The same young man escorted her from the room. 

Jack followed and in accordance with the request of his 
friend, asked her to meet him. Esther hesitated but finally con- 
sented. Her escort, loudly protesting, seemed upon the point 
of forcibly detaining her, but the steady eye and huge frame 
of Jack deterred him. Paying little heed to the knowing smiles 
of many of the diners. Jack escorted Esther to the recess of the 
room where his friend awaited them, excused himself with 
tact, sought a table not far distant and watched Wallace with 
the understanding of a man of the world. 

It seemed so strange to see him in such company — the blind 
man whose every thought and act had been so foreign to it all. 
Jack reproved himself for having suggested visiting such a 
place, but it had never occurred to him that temptation could 
assail Wallace. 

Jack had not been long cogitating upon the unexpected 
weakness of his friend, when a waiter approached and in- 
formed him that a party at the other end of the room desired 
him to join them. Such was the usual custom in the case of a 
man observed to be alone in Bohemia, and Jack saw no harm in 
a little diversion for himself under the circumstances. He found 
the party he had joined jolly enough — that kind of jollity that 
is always pitied in the weak-minded by nature, but viewed 


54 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 


otherwise when caused by drink — ^yet different only in origin. 

Hardly had he commenced to feel comfortable with his new 
found acquaintances when a commotion occured near the part 
of the room he had left. As he arose a young woman in the 
party who had been seated next to him sought to detain him, 
her escort aiming a blow which narrowly missed him. Quickly 
he disengaged himself and made as much haste to reach his 
friend as the crowded condition of the restaurant would per- 
mit. Too late. By the time he reached Wallace he found him 
inert upon the floor with his head pillowed in the crimsoned 
lap of Esther, struck down by a cowardly blow from the 
dancer’s escort. 

Dressed in the garb of a waiter, he was at that moment held 
captive by some of the irate diners. Jack sought to revive 
Walace, but Esther motioned him away and with a tenderness 
known only to womankind, brought him back to consciousness. 

Little did Jack suspect the nature of the conversation which 
had taken place between Wallace and Esther before that cruel 
blow was struck — but the amateur waiter had heard enough 
to madden him. Careful to keep unobserved behind the chair 
of Esther, he had heard Wallace reasoning and then pleading 
with her — to do what? To leave him — him — the man who 
one winter’s night a year ago found her a stranger and penni- 
less, wandering the streets — who had taken care of her and 
made her what she was — the highest priced cabaret dancer on 
the East side. True, she supported him — why not? Had he 
not made her? He had not married her — certainly not. She 
owed him everything — he owed her nothing. Women grow 
old — men never. But she was his — his — he had not tired of 
her. Why should this man try to take her from him? Take 
her — just because he had the means to dine instead of serve? 
Knowing only the instinct of the cave man, he had not waited 
her answer but had sought by might to possess the woman he 
thought he owned. 

In few words Wallace told Jack enough of the past which 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 


55 


was new to him to cause the latter to understand the scene 
which he had witnessed, but all had been too sudden for him 
to make a correct appraisal of his friend. 

Submitting to the request of Wallace that the young man 
be released, he was permitted to depart, much to the grati- 
fication of the manager of the establishment who did not con- 
sider police notoriety an asset. 

Jack guided Wallace to a little reception room, secured an 
arm chair for him and admonished him to rest until he had 
regained his composure. Jack then left to try to ascertain what 
had become of the party who had tried so hard to detain him 
during the attack. 

Esther quietly entered the reception room, seated herself 
upon a broad arm of the chair in which Wallace reclined, 
gently stroked his hair and remained silent. Wallace im- 
prisoned the small hand in his strong grasp and asked her 
what had caused her to come to America and choose the life in 
which he found her. 

Esther paused and then in a voice almost inaudible said, 
“You. I — I — tried at first to find you but could not and then 
— just tried to forget.*’ 

Strangely did the means adopted for forgetfulness contrast 
in Esther and Wallace. Women, the weaker sex, is usually 
stronger in suffering — love makes the only exception. Wallace 
realized his error in the course he had pursued. It had oc- 
casioned Esther’s fall and his unhappiness. Woman is hard to 
understand — it is impossible to fore-see what a woman will do 
under any given circumstances. There is no rule by which to 
judge them — they are distinctly individual. 

Wallace arose and placing both hands upon her shoulders 
asked, “Esther, is your love for me as great now or has all 
your suffering caused you to regard me differently? 

Esther’s only answer was to kiss him — just as she had done 
that sunny day in June. 


56 


LIGHTS AND SHADOWS 


No longer did the past belong to them. All gone in the 
happiness of the present and the promise of the future. 
Wallace with the knowledge of maturity forgiving the weak- 
ness of youth, and Esther child-like again in the fullness of her 
love. 

In a little town in Spain they now live. The sorrows of the 
past unknown to others and remembered by them only as a 
tribute to the great love they bear each other. 










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